Doctor Whooves sat under the wide roof of the coffee shop’s small patio, sipping on what he, at first, thought was edible that day. To his left, Screwball was tampering with what he assumed was a cadaver’s heart, and Lyra was watching her warily.
“Screwball, why are you doing that, and should I be concerned?”
Screwball looked up with her patented wide eyed stare, pausing as she poured the vodka through the Coronary artery. Whooves duly noted that her head was transfixed in a lazy eyed stare while she tipped the vodka bottle. “Ssssh. I’m nursing Sandy.”
“I’m not sure why you would be doing that to a heart, first off... a heart doesn’t function that way,” the Doc raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of the black slop before him that was meant to be coffee. At that point, he wasn’t completely sure if the staff could separate coffee from sewage.
“Biology and I have an agreement: I will fucking murder it someday. And then the world of Tetris shall take over.” Screwball threw the vodka bottle away. The bottle flew for a while before lodging itself in a display of muffins across the street. Acting spastically, she grabbed the heart, stuffed it in a bag, stood up, struck a purposeful pose, and said “I am going to eat a dragon.” She walked off leaving the two ponies staring in both astonishment, wonder, and vague curiosity towards her mental state.
“... That mare really needs to see a therapist,” Doc said while finishing off his... drink, did they call it? Perhaps that wind from Screwball’s mad sprint away solidified it.
The two remaining ponies sat and observed the hoof traffic of the early afternoon town. Doc had taken the night-shift at the hospital, Lyra had no job and was currently serving as a handymare about town, and the two of them sat wondering if they were going to make the month’s rent. With a tap of the chin, Hooves stared at his napkin for a bit, wishing he had a pen on him; a quick bit of maths would solve this problem in a snap. Before he could get beyond the second equation in his head, he was suddenly distracted by the crazy-eyed velvetine mare that he warily called a friend running down the street, carrying a flailing sack. Spotting the two still sitting at the table, she raced up, slammed the bag down, and stared at both of them.
“I got the body. Now where’s an oven?” At that exact moment, a small purple claw tore through the sack’s thin membrane. The two continued to stare in horror as Screwball rapidly returned from whatever she did with the heart, and violently slammed the sack on the table three times, dragging away the limp body. “YOU TWO ARE NO HELP. AT ALL. I need a bloody microwave!”
“A purple claw? Lyra, haven’t we seen that bef- oh dear,” Doc paused, thinking back. Quite vivid images of an emerald flame scorching his muzzle and a furious baby dragon stomping off upstairs from the morning’s visit to the library come back to him. “Ohhhhh dear.”
Now, you all might be wondering what a clinically psychotic mare, a part-time nurse, and a handy-pony are doing around town, in the middle of the day, with a dead body. I would explain, but buck you, buck your father, buck everything that you stand for, buck the sun, buck the moon, that’s right Celestia I’m talking about you. I’m a talking voice sitting in the middle of...I have no idea, I’m having a midlife crisis, and I need a drink. Welcome to the average and unusual life of Equestria’s least noted heroes. Where we left off, one of our heroes was dragging off an unconscious body, with mention of needing a microwave. What is a microwave? Don't ask me, just... follow her, I guess.
“Lyra, snap out of it! Now isn’t the time for a monologue!” Doc shouted, grabbing her by the hoof and running off.
“But I’m not done!” She shouted, scrambling to get out of the Doc’s grip. Screwball was harmless! And that omelette was so gooooood!
“Would you two lovebirds silence thyselves! I am trying to fit this harmonica down the toilet! Work damn you!” A random pony shouted from down the street; sure enough, they were indeed jamming a harmonica down the toilet. Doing a quick calculation in his head, Doc determined that the stallion shouting at them would require several hundred more pounds of force in order to do their determined task; the pipe wouldn’t expand wide enough to accept the harmonica on its own! Shut up, that was not perverted in the slightest.
~~~~
Five days ago, somepony was having a flashback to five days ago. That flashback was about the events that would transpire five days later, leading back to this flashback, which involves a pony flashing back to five days ago. This resulted in a time loop that caught Doctor Whooves’ attention, who aptly arrived using his TARDIS to fix the problem. Wait a minute, how do I know this? The question of why the hell am I still floating in a black hole is still haunting me. I’m still trying to figure out of if my wife left me, or if I even had a wife in the first place. Celestia help me, I can’t find any martinis in this place. If there is one thing that I so desperately need at the moment, it’s a martini-
At this exact moment, Screwball took it upon herself to find a way to bring the nameless, disembodied voice a liberating alcoholic beverage. She plotted, planned and kidnapped several Gryphon researchers to assist her. All was for naught however, as she didn’t quite know where this void was in the first place. Damned empirical data testing!
Ahem, back to the story.
~~~~
“Woo, that was a trip,” Doctor Whooves shook his head, eyes still spinning; time travel certainly was a ride, but this particular trip hit several dimensions worth of turbulence. It felt like spinning around in one of those fancy dryers ponies would invent a thousand years from now! Or was it five hundred? Telling time was always so difficult during these jumps; he sometimes lost track of if the planet even had a Sun at points! Slowly waiting for the nausea to subside, he blinked to gain focus, stepping out of the blue box that’s bigger on the inside and into his Three bedroom, two bathroom flat located on the outskirts of Ponyville proper.
Finding the couch, he flopped down onto its comfy and strangely moist surface, making a mental note to drill Screwball on why the couch was wet later. At that exact moment in the time/space big timey-wimey ball of infinite whirling mass, Screwball flew down the stairs and smacked head first into the wall directly in front. She then stood up and moved over to the stallion lying on the couch, his face more a look of concern for the wall, rather than the mare before him.
“Two things actually: one, why is the water bill so high? I swear on Celestia’s gambling addiction, if you’re taking bubble baths again, I will use a plunger on your anus, and two: do you know a safe place to dispose of bodies?” She asked, pulling a puppy dog stare.
“Denouncing the fact that you survived mass concussion, the water bill is so high because every time I come home, the couch appears to be wet. There’s no scent to it, thankfully, so I can only assume it’s related to you. And two, no, I’m not aware of any popular dumping sites for corpses, though I can only guess why you would need such a place,” Doc sighed; every week she’d ask him this, and every week she’d get the same answer. Why did she pester him with this? Sure, it was a nice drop back into reality; stupid questions always were, it reminded him what it meant to be a pony, but this was getting absurd!
Screwball did that unnerving thing where she blinked her eyes separately and slinked off the couch, popping up in the space between the seat cushions beside him. “Rough day at work?”
“My line of work is always rough, Screwball. Coming home to ever-skyrocketing bills and rent costs doesn’t make it any easier,” Doc raised an eyebrow at his room-mate. He still wondered why he and Lyra let her move in, especially after the whole ‘Discord For President’ fiasco; that election was rigged!. Screwball blinked again and furrowed her brows. The emotion was somehow lost on the doctor as her left eye decided the ceiling held some invisible interest and promptly went to investigate as her eyes burned with the passion of a thousand misinformed voters.
“Discord knows how to bring the jobs back, damn you! It was unfair! Literally, like a one hundred vote margin! The system is broke! Viva la Revolucion!" She screamed, jumping up and slamming into the ceiling.
“Ok, I am not getting into a political debate with a possibly-insane mare. I know that election was bad; we don’t even follow a democracy! It’s a court-appointed monarchy, for Celestia’s sake! And Princess Celestia doesn’t have a gambling addiction. She’s addicted to a few things... but that’s neither here nor there,” suddenly, Doc wanted something, he wanted something very bad. Something liquid, a light brown, possibly with clear cubes floating around in it... a sufficiently cold temperature with a mildly destructive liver effect...
That was it! Alcohol! He needed a drink, martini, anything to blur the world and suffocate the noise this mare made. Almost as if the hand of God had slapped her ass and shouted “go get ‘em tiger!” In her ear, Screwball fell back to earth, shook her head and ran to the kitchen. Upon her return, she was holding a rather large glass bottles with the words Deus Equis on the side, the double X lighting up the Doc’s spirits before Screwball tripped, sending the glass bottle hurtling towards Doc’s face. “INCOMING!”
The bottle, as if thrown by a master knife mark-stallion, landed neck first in the Doc’s mouth. Ok, honestly, there were times when this mare impressed him, and this happened to be one of them. The sight of the clear brown liquid lit up his spirits like the control panel of his TARDIS during a three-thousand year triple jump. Ohhh, triple jumps... nope, drink first, time-travel induced nausea later. He spat the bottle out onto the couch, catching it between his hooves, and set to work on the cap. Nearly breaking the neck of the poor glass construct during his war against the stubborn cap, he stared down into the opening.
It was strange, you know? Many ponies say that alcohol is bad for you. The Doc, however, managed to prove nearly every pony wrong with his invincible liver; even the local farm stallion fell on his flank when the doctor managed to drink him under the table ten to one.
Watching the stallion sigh and relax, draining the beer, Screwball jumped up and down, screaming and doing the hammer dance. “Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooh! Hole in one baby! What’chu got Jesus! You owe me a twenty motherbucker! Haha! I knew it!” She screamed up at the ceiling. “And who said alcohol was bad! Well, actually, alcoholism pretty much spells it out but I digress!” She suddenly turned on her heels and ran up to the Doc, mere inches from his face. Her breath smelled strangely of Peppermint and Antiseptic as she stated; “I think I just found the solution to world hunger.”
Oh me mother of Chardonnay and Brandy, I feel like Hugh Jelly after a friday night featuring Zecora the stripper and a case of Smuckers Strawberry Jelly. And why the buck am I an alchoholic? What did I do, have sex with a baby? I’m a bloody floating voice in a bloody big void! I feel like a dildo getting lost in Nurse Redheart’s gaping black hole that she calls a vag. And why do I know this, what the buck is happening? Why can I not have a drink? Is this real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a lands- WHY DO I KNOW BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY???
Before the narrator could take up any more time from this story, the camera suddenly shifted from the infinite blackness of the void between dimensions, becoming a blinding white slur of giggling, screams, and general sounds of discontent. Also a few moans, but we aren’t going there. Quickly, the scene returned to the simple flat belonging to Lyra, Doctor Whooves, who calls himself Time Turner as an alias, and Screwball, during a bout of excessive drinking brought on by her mad rambling.
Screwball meanwhile had wrangled up a six pack from Celestia knows where and was currently getting shit-faced on the couch beside Doc. “And she was sitting there screaming 'shut up I cannot express to you how much I do not care. Eat the chicken from my hat.' I mean, alcohol's like life, only it kills you faster,” she rambled, “I mean, life and alcohol are basically the same thing. You wake up with a splitting headache crying your eyeballs out. You go around for hours and hours and YEARS on end asking ponies what the buck happened and what you should do. You cry your eyeballs out at the sheer stupidity that is your life.
“You go and find a vice, which in this case is alcohol. You drink till you’re thinking about fucking your cousin and then you black out and the whole process repeats,” she finished, her tone dropping from irritatingly high to didactic, composed, and if the words coming out of her mouth didn’t sound like Michelle Bachmann giving a coherent and sensible speech, then it would’ve been perfectly normal.
“Ahem... first off, that was a rather good-” his sentence interrupted itself with a rather rude burp; never before had his stomach been so rude to a guest. She was a guest, wasn’t she? She could be his mother for all he cared, “Analogy about life.”
“Apapap!” She interrupted, pointing to him. “That burp right there was the mid-life crisis.”
How is it that you know exactly what I’m going through and proceed to make the worst possible analogy to my situation? Oh! Goody! I can imagine my martinis! THERE IS A GOD. Well, obviously there was a god seeing as how Celestia basically hacked the world and made herself a princess. That’s beside the point, what was the point? Buck the point. I am celebrating the death of the point here, and none of you can stop me!
The narrator was promptly smacked on the back of the head by the universe’s largest asteroid, resulting in a very minor concussion. It disturbed his rambling long enough, however, to get the camera back to something important.
This important thing happened to be the morning after the drinking bout between Screwball and the Doc, both of them lying on the floor. Alcohol smeared the floor and walls, some drops still falling off the ceiling. It may have been bathwater actually, but that was beside the point here. Whooves sat up and rubbed his forehead, the first signs of a hangover striking the back of his mind like a stick against a drum, and he looked over to the mare at his right. His mind suddenly started moving through possible scenarios that would include the following criteria:
Mare on the floor.
Stallion on the floor.
Both were smashed the night before.
It was past eight PM when the drinking started.
The two were talking about life.
A blurry image of the mare collapsing on his shoulder.
He suddenly reeled in fear, and went wide-eyed, as is typical of a shocked, life-shattering event. Screwball grumbled to life at that exact moment, no doubt jolted by the stallion’s sudden recoil.
“Nnngah. For the last time woman, I told you, I didn’t want the bloody muffins. I don’t like muffins, I don’t eat muffins, and they smell and taste like burning tires going through menopause,” she squinted, and rapidly blinked her eyes, trying in vain to clear her swimming head, “Ooh, please don’t tell me what I think just happened happened with the thing in my thing and the thing where we both moan and fake that we’re enjoying this when we’re actually wasting away and doing nothing productive with our lives.” She groaned
Whooves promptly put a hoof over her mouth to stop her from continuing, blinking with a furrowed brow, “I’m hoping that we really didn’t do that, yes... though I can’t quite remember. W-We were alone here, right?” He smiled a very disturbed smile; oh please Celestia, let the two souls in the room have been the only ones there... he sniffed the air, trying to get some hint as to what happened. The only thing that triggered any form of response in his brain was the smell of Deus Equis; that glorious, golden gold- wait, focus, Whooves! “I-I don’t... smell anything, at least.”
“Really? Because I smell fear and regret.” She sniffed in the Doc’s direction. “And a bad Cologne.”
“Shut up! It was expensive,” he quickly adds under his breath, “Granted that was two hundred years ago,” and quickly turns back to the mare beside him, “But that’s not the point! Just look for something that might be some hint as to what we think happened! We eliminate that, and we can just carry on with our morning as if nothing happened.”
At that moment, as if the god of time and space had decided that a cosmic dick-slap was in order, Lyra walked in. The mare and stallion who had spent the last twelve hours in that room, hearing the door close, immediately cursed every single god, goddess, deity, semi-god, demi-god, and hobo on the street they could think of for their currently-approaching bad luck.
Unfortunately, every goddess and deity had simultaneously heard and taken offense with their rampant and belligerent cursing, and they immediately conspired to make Lyra instantly on her period. Legends have been written of her emotional swings during her period. At once, the lime green mare stopped at the foyer near the door, stared at the two on the ground, sniffed the air, and deadpanned. She then promptly went upstairs and, and shut the door with holy purpose. Soon after, screaming as loud as a Cesarean birth without anesthesia could be heard as the silver-maned unicorn let loose a torrent of curses that made the couple’s cursing below look like a teenager just taking his first baby steps into a world of swearing.
“AND WHY?! WHY IN THE NAME OF CELESTIA’S CONCEALED FIVE FOOT LONG RAPE-BONER MUST I ENDURE THIS?!” She stopped suddenly, turning to a small pink slip on her desk. Taking it, she turned it over and squinted, putting on her reading glasses and looking over every line.
“Hey... umm... Doc. One last thing I forgot to tell you that I should have, and will probably be our death sentence now.”
“Lyra’s on her period, isn’t she?” Doc let out with a level tone, his calm voice betraying the maelstrom of horrible chaos in his mind.
“Umm...yeah...that...and our water’s getting shut off. We defaulted. Oh, and I left the notice in Lyra’s room.” She finished, getting up and diving behind the couch. Doctor Whooves, in the interest of preserving his life, followed the mare.
At that precise, almost perfectly executed point in time and space, a Rhesus monkey was having tea in a top hat and red monocle. But in other news, Lyra snapped.
“OUR WATER... OUR WATER. OUR WATER IS GETTING SHUT OFF! WHOOVES. WHOOVES! WHOOVES!!” She thundered down the steps, screaming his name along the way. As soon as she reached the base, she grabbed the poor stallion and practically lifted him off the ground with the strength of a thousand mares just finding out their stallion had cheated on them. “WHOOVES. PAYMENT. HOW NOT MAKE? HOW? HOW? HOW!? HOW!?” She continued repeating, rage and spittle flying everywhere.
“I swear! I don't know what happened! Spare me!” Doc pleaded with the psychotic mare, staring into the red pits of rage that were her once-yellow eyes. He couldn’t understand then how a mare could become so enraged, so spitefully furious that you could cook an egg on her head, but he knew one thing. One thing so painfully certain that it burned a black crater on the surface of his brain.
Never get married, and if you do, never cheat on your mare. You will die. You will die in the most painful way possible, and the last thing you see will be the eyes of the Devil. Whooves made a final prayer to the Princesses as he anticipated the end of his life.
“Hold on a tic, whose job was it to make the payments this month?” Pipped up Screwball, putting a thoughtful hoof to her chin. Both stallion and mare turned to the wayward mare. They both blinked, and suddenly a light bulb lit above their heads.
“YOURS!”
“YOURS!”
“Oh. Right... um...”
Lyra tossed Whooves to the side, him landing on his flank against the wall with a thud. She stalked, no, creeped up to the crazy mare behind the couch, and glared at her dead in the eyes. If looks could kill, Lyra, using that glare, would have murdered the entire population of Ponyville, and given the Black Plague to half the citizens of Canterlot. Strangely, Screwball was smiling into space.
Her current thoughts: “I’m bucked. I’m bucked. I’m bucked. She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me and rape my corpse. Will I still be alive to feel the rape? How long does the body stay warm after the death? How will I die? Will she snap my neck or take out my heart? If she snaps my neck I won’t feel it but I doubt it’d feel nice in the first place. Does rape ever feel nice? I doubt rape feels nice. Didn't I get raped once? No that was Big Mac. I still don’t understand how I raped him. I don’t even have a penis. He looked like he was enjoying it though, so is it still rape even when they’re enjoy-”
The fully ramblomatic thoughts of the psychopathic mare were cut off as the supply of oxygen to her brain was suddenly cut off. This strange phenomenon was due to Lyra grabbing her throat and wringing her like she was her long lost squeaky toy. Strangely, Screwball actually did squeak when Lyra thrashed her. Whooves’ shouts went into her mind as a muddled crowd of sounds; sounded kind of like Vinyl’s nightclub, only using really bad music, and the crowd was made of zombie ponies.
Did zombies go to nightclubs? Wooo, pretty lights... wait, white dots in vision... that wasn’t good, was it? A quick tackle by Whooves brought the world back into focus as the liberating flow of oxygen to the brain was re-established. It was kind of like a supply line of trucks finally being thrown along the road during a tornado, all landing perfectly at their destinations. And they were all made of oxygen.
“Lyra! Calm down!” Whooves shouted, him and Lyra wrestling on the couch. He finally got her into a pinned-down position, one of her forelegs behind her back with the other stretched out in front. Her hind legs were spread by Whooves’ own, and he used his weight to hold her down. He calmly assumed this would look strange to the other mare, but that didn’t matter; lives were at stake! They always were when a mare was on her period and in the middle of a mood-swinging rampage!
Sure enough, the other mare did find this strange. She also wanted to join in, but the currently-spinning world managed to duplicate. This made standing up near impossible, let alone walking, or joining in the wrestling fun. She cursed the gods a final time before falling onto her back, letting the ceiling make funny shapes for her.
“Get off me, Whooves! Lemme strangle that stupid mare for forgetting to pay! I need to make her pay! Then I’ll pay the utility bill with her HEAD!” Lyra struggled under the stallion who dared to separate her from her target.
“Nopony’s being paid with heads here! Just calm down! We’ll make the money somehow, and get the water bill paid properly!” Whooves grunted; despite the mare below him being smaller, she certainly had a lot of fight in her!
“Then where’d the money go!? Did she just forget to pay, or did she go off and spend it again!?”
“Screwball, answer her please!”
Right there. Right there was the moment that Whooves would look back upon and laugh hysterically at how much of an idiot he was.
“Alcohol,” Screwball drowsily answered. The mare and stallion stopped struggling against each other, both turning their heads back and staring at the legs of Screwball. Whooves’ brain stopped processing everything it did, and just... locked. His brain locked like a gridlock in Manehatten, and he couldn’t find any form of kickstart for it.
Lyra however bristled slightly, eyes going wider than they had before. “... What?”
“Allllllcohoooooool... it was fun! Spent all of last night drinking and talking with Whooves!” Screwball giggled, smiling as the clouds on the ceiling turned into clowns and dogs.
“Wait, that was the smell in here?!”
“So it wasn’t the smell of coitus!? Oh, thank Luna!” Whooves nearly collapsed in relief.
“I don’t know! It smells like rubbing alcohol in here!” Lyra tossed Whooves off her back and got up, glaring at Screwball. “You’re making this money back, and you’re paying the bill. So help me Celestia if you screw this up...”
“Doooon’t worry. It’s allll in the bag. Like a cat! Or a tiger... maybe a panther?” Screwball squinted, a circus show playing out in front of her. It was always so hard to identify the species of cat coming out of that massive brown bag, especially when it wouldn’t settle on a single species! It kept changing!
“Alright,” Lyra declared, gradually reclaiming control of her rational thought. “We need to do something about this. And by ‘we,’ I mean Screwball. She’s the reason we’re in this mess, so she’s the one who’s gonna fix it. At the very least, she needs to be put to work.”
“I can agree with that. We’ll all need to pitch in, however, in order to cover rent along with the bill. I’ll see if I can get Screwball a job... I’ve had my eyes on a part-time position at the hospital, actually. Rather good at medicine; had to take care of my share of scrapes and bruises. Any ideas on what you’ll do, Lyra?” Whooves raised an eyebrow, setting himself down on the couch. “And erm... sorry for putting you in that compromising position, it’s the only hold I know.”
“I’m trying to forget it happened,” Lyra replied, then began to consider Whooves’s question. The first thing to come to mind was to simply dust off her lyre and find a nice street corner to perform on. But being a street performer wasn’t even CLOSE to being a well-paying job, and as much as she’d love to pick it back up, she literally couldn’t afford relying on it right now. Plus, she had little faith in these two mental cases finding anything substantial, so she’d have to find a decent job of her own if she even wanted to consider pursuing the music angle on the side.
Why’re you all ignoring me? I’m having difficulties here! Granted I actually have my martini now, but still, difficulties! Difficulties that need attention! I got hit in the head by an asteroid, for God’s sake! I did not lie about this void being empty! I just didn’t notice a flying SPACE ROCK was here! And I didn’t know I was in the path! Shut up! I NEED ANOTHER DRINK!!
As the universe bent and shook under the shout of the narrator, the camera panned back to the three ponies meeting up in their flat. For some reason, three hours had passed, though it was assumed the narrator managed to waste that much time with his drunken rambling about World War II. Whooves sat on his couch, staring at the floor, while Screwball swing around on the ceiling fan; why did they have a ceiling fan, anyway? It took a unicorn to keep the damned thing spinning. Lyra sat in front of the couch, spinning the fan above her with gentle shoves of her magic, and rubbed her forehead.
“Well, I got an interview at the hospital... seems they needed more nurses on staff, and my medical knowledge brought me straight on the staff. It’s not a lot, but if I save my bits, I should be able to make due,” Whooves nodded, inwardly sulking; there goes his weekly trips to the bar, “Any success on your end, Lyra?”
“Yes and no,” Lyra replied. “On the one hoof, I couldn’t get anything solid or with a consistent paycheck. You have no damn idea how hard it is to get a job in three hours, and I have no idea how in Celestia’s name YOU managed it.
“On the other hoof,” she continued, a small smile breaching her face, “I settled on two side-projects. I’m thinking of going out as a handymare for hire as the more financially supportive option, and playing my lyre on a street corner or a public park or something as a bit of self-indulgence.”
“Good idea, considering your special talent. I’ve been signing off at the hospital for a while now, so it was only a matter of time. As for Screwball, I’m still looking, though I can’t imagine her holding down a job on her own,” Whooves frowned, looking up at the mare on the fan. She’s still giggling to herself?
“No worries, I’ve got it alllll in the bag! We’ll have that money in no time, with extra!” Screwball smiled to herself, a big toothy grin; her plan was foolproof! All she needed was two hundred feet of wire cable, a dragon, and a paper bag! But where would she get the cable at this hour? She crossed her forelegs and put a hoof to her chin, spitting in the face of gravity for a few moments before falling onto her flank with a healthy thud.
“I’m pretty sure I should be scared of what she has in mind,” Lyra remarked, not trusting that grin one bit.
“So am I, but we all have our part to play in this. Tomorrow’s my first day, as is yours, I assume, Lyra. I suppose we’ll just have to leave Screwball to her machinations,” Whooves gritted his teeth slightly; he knew he was going to regret saying that, but they didn’t have much choice in the matter. Working as a nurse was going to detract a lot of time, even as a part-time job.
And so, the three ponies agreed to meet the next afternoon, after their respective first days ended. The hospital was taking in a few patients, work around the town was always buzzing, and there were plenty of opportunities for a crazy mare to make a living.
Would things go as expected for this group? Would Whooves have a pleasent first day and make a good amount of bits? Would Lyra be overworked? And just what is Screwball planning?
"And why do you all keep ignoring me!? Huh? Put up the title? Alright, hang on..."
With a final gulp of his martini, a mighty clap was made by the narrator’s voice, and the void between dimensions exploded with light, a bright flare left behind from the supernova: A neon sign with a single title written on it, three smiling faces lit up under it as constellations in the darkness.
“It’s Always Funny In Ponyville!”